FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.  D.  D, 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


5Co 

/V74o 


AMONG    THE 


OTHER     POEMS 


JOHN    GREENLEA1     WHITTIER 


B(  IS  rON  : 
FIELDS,     OSGOOD,     &     CO 

nacNoi  an:, 
i  869. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


m«i 


A  \  \  I  I      FIELDS, 

vT  I)  i  s    11 1 1 1 1  f    Fo  I  it  m  r , 
GRATEFULLY    OPFEI 


AMONG    THE    II  I  U.S. 


PRELUDE. 


A 


LO\(i  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  eold 


That  tawny  [ncas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  Bunshinc  droops  the  golden-i 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal-fiovi 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  sta> 

The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind. 
Wing-weary  with  its  Long  flight  from  the  south, 
Unfelt  ;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  maple  leaf 

With    faintest    motion,   as   one   Stirs   in   dreams, 


12  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighboring  hill, 
Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snow-drift  still 
Defied  the  dog-star.     Through  the  open  door 
A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers  —  gray  heliotrope, 
And  white  sweet-clover,  and  shy  mignonette  — 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

No  time  is  this  for  hands  long  overworn 
To  task  their  strength  ;    and  (unto  Him  be  praise 
Who  giveth  quietness  ! )    the  stress  and  strain 
Of  years  that  did  the  work  of  centuries 
Have    ceased,    and   we    can    draw  our   breath   once 
more 


PRELUDE.  13 

I        ly   and   full  yon   harvesters 

Make  glad  their  nooning  underneath  the  elms 
With  tale  and   riddle  and   old   snatch   of  SOI 
J    lay  rave   themes,   and   idly   turn 

The  leaves  of  Memory's  sketch-hook,  dreaming 
Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills. 

And   human   life,   as    quiet,   at   their   t     I 

And  yet  not  idly  all.     A  Burner's  son, 

Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest  craft,  and  feeling 

All   their   hue   possibilities,   how   rich 

And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 

B     Ome   when   beauty,    harmony,   and   love 

Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels 

At  evening  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  when  man 

Makes   labor   noble,   and    his   farmer's   frock 
The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 
Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 


14  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty  ;  still,  I  know 

Too  well  the  picture  has  another  side,  — 

How  wearily  the  grind  of  toil  goes  on 

Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the  eye  and  ear 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plenitude 

Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 

Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     I  look 

Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 

And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads,  where  no  flower 

Told  that  the  spring  had  come,  but  evil  weeds, 

Nightshade  and  rough-leaved  burdock  in  the  place 

Of  the  sweet  doorway  greeting  of  the  rose 

And  honeysuckle,  where  the  house  walls  seemed 

Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or  vine 

To  cast  the  tremulous  shadow  of  its  leaves 

Across  the  curtainless  windows  from  whose  panes 

Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftlessness  ; 

Within,  the  cluttered  kitchen-floor,  unwashed 


PRELU1  15 

(Broom-clean    I    think    they   called    it)  ;    the    best 

room 
Stifling  with   cellar  damp,  shut   from   the  air 
In  hot  midsummer,  bookless,  picture) 
Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 
Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning-pi 
A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked,  beneath 

Impossible  willows  ;    the   wide-throated    hearth. 

Bristling  with  faded  pine-boughs  half  concealing 
The  piled-up  rubbish  at  the  chimney's  back  ; 

And,   in   sad   keeping   with   all   things   about    them. 
Shrill,   querulous   women,   SOUT   and   sullen    men. 

Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 

With    scarce  a  human   inter.    I  their  own 

Monotonous  round  of  small  economi 

Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighborhood  ; 

Blind   to  the  beauty  everywhere   revealed. 

Treading  the  May-flowers  with  regardless  feet  ; 


1 6  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

For  them  the  song-sparrow  and  the  bobolink 
Sang  not,  nor  winds  made  music  in  the  leaves  ; 
For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the  hills, 
The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods. 
Church-goers,  fearful  of  the  unseen  Powers, 
But  grumbling  over  pulpit-tax  and  pew-rent, 
Saving,  as  shrewd  economists,  their  souls 
And  winter  pork  with  the  least  possible  outlay 
Of  salt  and  sanctity  ;    in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty, 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had  been 
Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac  : 
Rich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half-tilled  fields, 
And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  comfortless, 
The  veriest  straggler  limping  on  his  rounds, 
The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 


Laughed  at  a  poverty  that  paid  its  tax 
And  hugged  his  rags  in  self-complacen 

such  should  be  the  hoc  i  of  a  land 

Where  whoso  wisely  wills  and  acts  may  dwell 

:ing  and   lawgiver,  in   hi 
With  beauty,  an. 

His   hour  of  leisure   richer  than   a  life 
(  m  fourscore  to  the  I  old  time, 

( )ii!-  yeoman  should  J  to  his  home 

Set  in  the  fair,  gr  :en  \  all  j  -.  ; 
A  man  to  mat<  li  his  mountain 
Dwarfed  and  aba  iw  them.     I  would  fain 

In   this   light   way   (of  which    I    needs   must   own 
With  the  knife-grinder  of  whom  Canning  sin 

-li  '    I   have  none   to  tell 
Invite  the  eye  to 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  within   their  reach.  — 


1 8  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beatitudes 

Of  nature  free  to  all.     Haply  in  years 

That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our  own, 

Heard  where  some  breezy  balcony  looks  down 

On  happy  homes,  or  where  the  lake  in  the  moon 

Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fair  as  Ruth, 

In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the  feet 

Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 

May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 

Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 

Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,  lifting  manhood  up 

Through  broader  culture,  finer  manners,  love, 

And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 

O  Golden  Age,  whose  light  is  of  the  dawn, 
And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 
Flood   the   new  heavens    and    earth,  and    with    thee 
bring 


PRELU1  19 

All  the  old  virtues,  whatsoever  things 
Are  pure  and  honest  and  of  good  repute, 
But   add   thereto   whatever  bard   has   sung 

has  told  of  when  in  trance  and  dream 
They  saw  the   Happy  [sles  of  proph 
Lei    J  hold   h(  and   Truth   divide 

.  the  right  and  •  the  heart 

The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritar 

the  poor  1  1  i  oner,  cramped  and  starved 
At   Nature'    table  : 

With  joy  and  wond  r  ;  let  all  harmoni<  - 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  motion,  wait  upon 
The  princely  guest,  whether  in  soft  attire 
( )f  leisure  dad,  or  the  1  i  of  toil. 

And,  lending  life  to  the  dead  form  of  faith, 
Give  human  nature  reverence  for  the  sake 
( )t  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 
With   the  Ineffable  tenderness  of  God  ; 


20  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

Let  common  need,  the  brotherhood  of  prayer, 

The  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny, 

The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us,  make 

A  man  more  precious  than  the  gold  of  Ophir. 

Sacred,  inviolate,  unto  whom  all  things 

Should  minister,  as  outward  types  and  signs 

Of  the  eternal  beauty  which  fulfils 

The  one  great  purpose  of  creation,  Love, 

The  sole  necessity  of  Earth  and  Heaven  ! 


AMONG    THE    HII..  2  1 


A  M  i  HILLS. 

T70R  he  clouds  had  raked  the  hills 

And  the  val 

And  all  the 
And  all  tl  implainin 

At  last,  a   m  I  len  i 

The  mountain   veils  asund 
And  swept  the  \  'can  bei 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

igh  Sandwich  notch  the 
»od   morrow   to   the  C0tt<  . 

And  'torn 

shadow  pierced   the   water. 


22  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness  ; 

And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 
And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 


AMONG    THE    HILLS.  23 

I  call   to  mind   those   banded   vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shin: 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  clining. 

We   held   our  way   a: 

old,   with    wi 

Swept  through  ami   through  by  swallows, — 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 

And  larches  climbing  darkly 
The  mountain  si  I,  over  all, 

The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  thai   long  hill-ran 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven,  — 

v  through   each   pass  and   hollow   streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven,  — 


24  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 

From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 
The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains ! 

We  paused  at  last  where  home-bound  cows 
Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 

And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 
Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We  heard  the  night-hawk's  sullen  plunge, 
The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling  : 

The  shadows  lengthening  down  the  slopes 
About  our  feet  were  falling. 

And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 

In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 
Touched  the  gray  rocks  and  made  the  green 

Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 


AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 

Their  arch  of  leaves  just  ti 
With  yellow  warmth,  the  golden   glow 

Of  coming  autumn   hinted. 

white  betw  farm-h< 

And  smiled  on  por<  h  and  trellis, 
The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 
Thai 

And  weaving  garlands  for  1 
'Twixt  chidings  and 

A  human   flo  >ok 

The   sunshine   from   her   I 

On  either  hand  ns 

Of  fancy   and   of  shrewdm 
Where   taste   had   wound   its  arms  of  vines 

Round  thrift's  uncomely  rudeness. 

2 


26  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

The  sun-brown  farmer  in  his  frock 
Shook  hands,  and  called  to  Mary  : 

Bare-armed,  as  Juno  might,  she  came, 
White-aproned  from  her  dairy. 

Her  air,  her  smile,  her  motions,  told 
Of  womanly  completeness  ; 

A  music  as  of  household  songs 
Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness. 

Not  beautiful  in  curve  and  line, 
But  something  more  and  better, 

The  secret  charm  eluding  art, 
Its  spirit,  not  its  letter  ;  — 

An  inborn  grace  that  nothing  lacked 
Of  culture  or  appliance,  — 

The  warmth  of  genial  courtesy, 
The  calm  of  self-reliance. 


II  IK     HI! 

Before  her  queenly  womanhood 
How   dared   our   hostess   utter 
The   paltry  errand   of  her  n< 

buy  her  burned  butter  ? 

She  led  the  way  with  housewife  pride, 

1 1 
Full   tenderly   t!  ills 

With   ; 

Then,  while  along  the  western  hills 
We  watched  the  changeful  glory 

Of  sunset,  on  our  homeward  way, 
I  heard  her  simple  story. 

The  early  crickets  sang  ;  the  stream 
Plashed  through  mv  friend's  narration 

1  [er  rustic  patois  of  the  hills 
Lost  in   my   free  translation. 


28  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

"More  wise,"  she  said,  "than  those  who  swarm 

Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 
She  came,  when  June's  first  roses  blow, 

To  greet  the  early  comer. 

"  From  school  and  ball  and  rout  she  came, 

The  city's  fair,  pale  daughter, 
To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 

Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 

"  Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 
That  watch  our  homesteads  over  ; 

On  cheek  and  lip,  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 

"For  health  comes  sparkling  in  the  streams 

From  cool  Chocorua  stealing  : 
There  's  iron  in  our  Northern  winds  ; 

Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing. 


ANION.,    THE    HI]  29 

"She  sat  beneath  the  broad-armed  elms 

That  skirt  the  mowing-meadow, 
And  watched  the  gentle  west-wind  weave 

The  with  shine  and  shadow. 

ide   her,   from    the   summer   i 
I  0  share  her  grateful  screenii 
With 

n  his  pitchfork  leani 

Lmed    in    its  damp,   dark   locks,   his   ! 
1 1. id  nothing  m  imon,  — 

Strong,  manly,  true,  the  tendem 
And  pride  beloved  of  woman. 

"She  looked  up,  glowii  \  with  the  health 

The   country   air   had   brought    1 
And,   laughing,   said  :    '  You   lack   a   wile, 

Your  mother  lacks  a  daughter, 


30  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

" '  To  mend  your  frock  and  bake  your  bread 

You  do  not  need  a  lady  : 
Be  sure  among  these  brown  old  homes 

Is  some  one  waiting  ready,  — 

"  '  Some  fair,  sweet  girl  with  skilful  hand 
And  cheerful  heart  for  treasure, 

Who  never  played  with  ivory  keys, 
Or  danced  the  polka's  measure.' 

"  He  bent  his  black  brows  to  a  frown, 

He  set  his  white  teeth  tightly. 
'  'T  is  well,'  he  said,  '  for  one  like  you 

To  choose  for  me  so  lightly. 

"  '  You  think,  because  my  life  is  rude, 

I  take  no  note  of  sweetness  : 
I  tell  you  love  has  naught  to  do 

With  meetness  or  unmeetness. 


AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

"  ■  Itself  its  best  excuse,  it  asks 

No  leave  of  pride  or  fashion 
When  silken  zone  or  homespun  frock 

It  stirs  with  throbs  of  passion. 

"  '  You  think  me  deaf  and  blind  :  you  bring 

Your  winning  graces  hither 
As  free  as  if  from  cradle-time 

We  two  had  played  together. 

" '  You  tempt  me  with  your  laughing  eyes, 
Your  cheek  of  sundown's  blushes, 

A  motion  as  of  waving  grain, 
A  music  as  of  thrushes. 

"  '  The  plaything  of  your  summer  sport, 
The  spells  you  weave  around  me 

You  cannot  at  your  will  undo, 
Nor  leave  me  as  you  found  me. 


32  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

"  '  You  go  as  lightly  as  you  came, 
Your  life  is  well  without  me  ; 

What  care  you  that  these  hills  will  close 
Like  prison-walls  about  me  ? 

" '  No  mood  is  mine  to  seek  a  wife, 
Or  daughter  for  my  mother  : 

Who  loves  you  loses  in  that  love 
All  power  to  love  another ! 

" '  I  dare  your  pity  or  your  scorn, 
With  pride  your  own  exceeding  ; 

I  fling  my  heart  into  your  lap 
Without  a  word  of  pleading.' 

"  She  looked  up  in  his  face  of  pain 

So  archly,  yet  so  tender  : 
'And  if  I  lend  you  mine/  she  said, 

'  Will  you  forgive  the  lender  ? 


rni:  hills.  $3 

r  frock  nor  tan  can  hide  the  man  ; 
And  see  you  not,  my  farmer, 

weak  and  fond  a  woman  waits 
ind  this  silken  armor? 

"'I   !•  .     you:  on  that  love  alone, 
I  not  my  worth,  presuming, 
Will  you  not  trust  for  summer  fruit 
The  tree   in   May-day   bloom  in 

ne  the  hangbird  ov 
J  [is  hair-su  u 
Looked  down  to  see  love's  miracle, — 
The  giving  that  ling. 

"And  so  the  farmer  found  a  wife, 

His  mother  found  a  daughter: 
There  looks  no  happier  home  than  hers 

On  pleasant  Beareamp  Water. 


34  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

"  Flowers  spring  to  blossom  where  she  walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty  ; 
Our  hard,  stiff  lines  of  life  with  her 

Are  flowing  curves  of  beauty. 

"  Our  homes  are  cheerier  for  her  sake, 
Our  door-yards  brighter  blooming, 

And  all  about  the  social  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her'  coming. 

"  Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 

Her  daily  life  is  preaching  ; 
The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 

Is  her  unconscious  teaching. 

"  And  never  tenderer  hand  than  hers 

Unknits  the  brow  of  ailing  ; 
Her  garments  to  the  sick  man's  ear 

Have  music  in  their  trailing. 


AMONG    THE    Hi: 

I  when,  in  pleasant  harvest  moons, 
The  youthful  huskers  gatl. 
Or  sleigh-drives  on  the  mountain  w 
the  winter  weather, — 

"  In  sugar-camps,  when  south  and  warm 
The  winds  of  March  are  blow.: 

And  sweetly  from   its  thawin. 
The  maple's  blood  — 

"  In   summer,  where  some  lilied   pond 
virgin  zone  is  baring, 

Or  where  the  ruddy  autumn   fire 
hts  up  the  apple-paring, — 

"  The  coarseness  of  a  ruder  time 
1  Ier  finer  mirth  disj 

lse  of  pleasure  fills 
ch  rustic  sport  she  gra^ 


$6  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

"  Her  presence  lends  its  warmth  and  health 

To  all  who  come  before  it. 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 

As  she  alone  restore  it. 

"  For  larger  life  and  wiser  aims 

The  farmer  is  her  debtor ; 
Who  holds  to  his  another's  heart 

Must  needs  be  worse  or  better. 

"  Through  her  his  civic  service  shows 

A  purer-toned  ambition  ; 
No  double  consciousness  divides 

The  man  and  politician. 

"  In  party's  doubtful  ways  he  trusts 

Her  instincts  to  determine  ; 
At  the  loud  polls,  the  thought  of  her 

Recalls  Christ's  Mountain  Sermon. 


►NG    THE    HILLS. 

"He  owns  her  logic  of  the  heart, 

And  wisdom  of  unreason, 
Supplying,  while  he  doubts  and  weighs, 

The  needed  word  in  season. 

"lie  sees  with  pride  her  richer  thought, 

Her  fan  y's  G 
And  love  thus  deepened  ect 

proof  against  all  ch 

"  And  if  ihe  w  i. 

His   feet   are   slow   to   travel, 
And  if  she  reads  with  cultur    I 
What  his  may  unravel, 

"  Still  clearer,  for  her  k 

Of  beauty  and   of  wonder, 
He   learns  the   meaning  of  the   hills 
He  dwelt  from  childhood   und 


38  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

i 

"And  higher,  warmed  with  summer  lights, 
Or  winter-crowned  and  hoary, 

The  ridged  horizon  lifts  for  him 
Its  inner  veils  of  glory. 

"  He  has  his  own  free,  bookless  lore, 
The  lessons  nature  taught  him, 

The  wisdom  which  the  woods  and  hills 
And  toiling  men  have  brought  him  : 

"  The  steady  force  of  will  whereby 
Her  flexile  grace  seems  sweeter  ; 

The  sturdy  counterpoise  which  makes 
Her  woman's  life  completer: 

"A  latent  fire  of  soul  which  lacks 

*No  breath  of  love  to  fan  it ; 
And  wit,  that,  like  his  native  brooks, 

Plays  over  solid  granite. 


AMONG    lUl,    HILLS. 

"  How  dwarfed  against  his  manliness 
She  sees  the  poor  pretension, 

The  want-,   the  aims,   the  follies,  born 
Of  fashion  and  convention  ! 

"  I  [ow   life   behind   ii  nts 

The  human   fact   bran  g   all 

The  I  tnd  the  gaining. 

"  And  so,  in  grateful  Lnt< 

her  and  of  I 
Their  lives  their  true  distin 
\\  hile  daily  drawing  near 

"And  if  the  husband   or  the   wife 

In  home's  light  dis 

Such   slight   defaults   a-   failed   to   meet 

The   blinded   eves  of  \o\ 


40  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

"  Why  need  we  care  to  ask  ?  —  who  dreams 
Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 

Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 
The  readiest  spark  discloses  ? 

"  For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living : 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows   / 

The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 


"We  send  the  Squire  to  General  Court, 
He  takes  his  young  wife  thither  ; 

No  prouder  man  election  day 

Rides  through  the  sweet  June  weather. 

"  He  sees  with  eyes  of  manly  trust 

All  hearts  to  her  inclining  ; 
Not  less  for  him  his  household  light 

That  others  share  its  shining." 


AMONG    THE    HILLS.  41 

Thus,  while  my  hostess  spake,  there  grew 

fore  me,  warmer  tint 
And   outlined  with   a  tenderer  grace, 
The   picture   that   she   hint 

The  sunset   smouldei 

ath  the  deep  hill-shado 
B     >w  us  wreaths  of  white  fog  walk 
Lik  the   haunted   m 

Sounding  the  summer  night,  tl, 

pped  down  their  golden  plumm 
The  pale  arc  of  the   Northern   li. 
K  r  the  mountain  summit 

Until,  at  last,  beneath  its  brid( 
We  heard  the  Bearcamp  flowing, 

And  ipled   lawn 

The  welcome  home-lights  glowing;  — 


42  AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

And,  musing  on  the  tale  I  heard, 
'T  were  well,  thought  I,  if  often 

To  rugged  farm-life  came  the  gift 
To  harmonize  and  soften  ;  — 

If  more  and  more  we  found  the  troth 

Of  fact  and  fancy  plighted, 
And  culture's  charm  and  labor's  strength 

In  rural  homes  united,  — 

The  simple  life,  the  homely  hearth, 
With  beauty's  sphere  surrounding, 

And  blessing  toil  where  toil  abounds 
With  graces  more  abounding. 


M  ISC  E  I.  CAN  EOUS    POE  M  S 


THE    CLEAR    VISION. 

1)1 1)  but  dream.     I  never  kn 
What  charms  our 

never  yet  the  sky  so  blue, 
Was  nevi  r  i  irth  so  white  before. 
Till   now   I    :  low 

I   on  yon  hills  of  snow, 
And  never  learned  the  bough's  desij 
Of  beauty  in   it 

I  )id  ( wr  such  a  morning  bi 

that  my  eastern  window 
Did  ever  such  a  moonlight  take 

\\  efrd  photographs  of  shrub  and  tree  ? 


46  THE    CLEAR    VISION. 

Rang  ever  bells  so  wild  and  fleet 
The  music  of  the  winter  street  ? 
Was  ever  yet  a  sound  by  half 
So  merry  as  yon  school-boy's  laugh  ? 

O  Earth !  with  gladness  overfraught, 

No  added  charm  thy  face  hath  found  ; 
Within  my  heart  the  change  is  wrought, 
My  footsteps  make  enchanted  ground. 
From  couch  of  pain  and  curtained  room 
Forth  to  thy  light  and  air  I  come, 
To  find  in  all  that  meets  my  eyes 
The  freshness  of  a  glad  surprise. 

Fair  seem  these  winter  days,  and  soon 

Shall  blow  the  warm  west  winds  of  spring 

To  set  the  unbound  rills  in  tune, 
And  hither  urge  the  bluebird's  wing. 


THE    CLEAR    VIS! 

The  vales  shall  iaugb  in 
Grow  mi  n  with  leafing  buds, 

And   violets   and   wind-fl  vay 

linst  the  throbbing  heart  of  May. 

Break  forth,  my  lips,  in  praise,  and 
The   wiser  1<  .    kind  ; 

her   for   its  vn, 

I  sec,  wh<  i         I  blind 

The  world,  ( )  F  ither  !  hath  not  « i 
Wit h  loss  the  life  by  tfa 
But  still,  with  every  add 

•  beautiful  thy  works  appear ! 

made   thy   world   without, 
:  thou  more  fair  my  world  within  ; 
Shine  through  its  lingerii  :'  doubt  ; 

Rebuke  its  haunting  shapes  of  sin  ; 


48  THE    CLEAR   VISION. 

Fill,  brief  or  long,  my  granted  span 
Of  life  with  love  to  thee  and  man  ; 
Strike  when  thou  wilt  the  hour  of  rest, 
But  let  my  last  days  be  my  best ! 

2d  Month,  1868. 


F   JARL    THORKELL.  49 


THE    DOLE   I  >F   JARL   THORKELL 

^  ¥  "III.   hind   was   pale   with    famine 

And  ra<  ked  with  I  in  ; 

The  froz  n  I 
The  earth  withheld  her  grain. 

Men  saw  the  boding  F) ' 

me   and 
And,  through  their  dreams,  the   I'nlar-moon 

Jar]  Thorkell  of  Thevera 
At  Yule-time  made  his  vow  ; 

On    Rykdal's   holy    Doom-stone 

He  .slew  to  Frey  his  cow. 

3  n 


50  THE    DOLE    OF   JARL    THORKELL. 

To  bounteous  Frey  he  slew  her  ; 

To  Skuld,  the  younger  Norn, 
Who  watches  over  birth  and  death, 

He  gave  her  calf  unborn. 

And  his  little  gold-haired  daughter 
Took  up  the  sprinkling-rod, 

And  smeared  with  blood  the  temple 
And  the  wide  lips  of  the  god. 

Hoarse  below,  the  winter  water 

Ground  its  ice-blocks  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Jets  of  foam,  like  ghosts  of  dead  waves, 
Rose  and  fell  along  the  shore. 

The  red  torch  of  the  Jokul, 

Aloft  in  icy  space, 
Shone  down  on  the  bloody  Horg-stones 

And  the  statue's  carven  face. 


THE    DOLE    OF   JAKL    THORKELL. 

And  closer  round  and  grimmer 

neatb  its  baleful  light 
The  Jotun   shapes  of  mountains 


Came  crowding  through   the  night. 


-haired  Hersir  trembled 

a  flame  by  wind  is  blown  ; 

Moved   his   white   lips, 
And   their  \  xn  ! 

"  Th  thirst  ! "   he  mutter 

•    ]  must  have  more  bl 

Before  the   tun   shall   I 

I  >r  fish     hall  fill  the  tlood. 

"  The  JEsit  thirst   and  hunger, 

And  hence  our  blight  and   ban  ; 
The  mouths  of  the  Stron  water 

r  the  flesh  and  blood   oi  man  ! 


52         THE  DOLE  OF  JARL  THORKELL. 

"  Whom  shall  we  give  the  strong  ones  ? 

Not  warriors,  sword  on  thigh  ; 
But  let  the  nursling  infant 

And  bedrid  old  man  die." 

"  So  be  it  !  "    cried   the  young  men, 
"  There  needs  nor  doubt  nor  parle  "  ; 

But,  knitting  hard  his  red  brows, 
In  silence  stood  the  Jarl. 

A  sound  of  woman's  weeping 
At  the  temple  door  was  heard  ; 

But  the  old  men  bowed  their  white  heads, 
And  answered  not  a  word. 

Then  the  Dream-wife  of  Thingvalla, 

A  Vala  young  and  fair, 
Sang  softly,  stirring  with  her  breath 

The  veil  of  her  loose  hair. 


THE    D  'I.I.    OF  JARL    THORKELL. 

She  sang  :    u  The  winds  from  Alfheim 

r  sound  of  strife  ; 
The  gifts  fur  Frcy  the  I 

Are  not  of  death,  but   life. 

'•III.        ■ 

The  grazing  ki  h  ; 

lie  loathes  y  >ur 

"  No  wrong   1  j 

tin  ; 
The  blood  that  smoki  -  fi    m   I  >oom-i 

in    redder   rain. 

ire  what  you  r  do, 

earth  shall  Asgard 

And  hate  will  come  of  hating. 
And  love  will  come  of  love. 


54  THE    DOLE    OF   JARL    THORKELL. 

"  Make  dole  of  skyr  and  black  bread 
That  old  and  young  may  live  ; 

And  look  to  Frey  for  favor 
When  first  like  Frey  you  give. 

"  Even  now  o'er  Njord's  sea-meadows 
The  summer  dawn  begins  ; 

The  tun  shall  have  its  harvest, 
The  fiord  its  glancing  fins." 

Then  up  and  swore  Jarl  Thorkell : 

"By  Gimli  and  by  Hel, 
O  Vala  of  Thingvalla, 

Thou  singest  wise  and  well  ! 

"  Too  dear  the  ^Esir's  favors 

Bought  with  our  children's  lives  ; 

Better  die  than  shame  in  living 
Our  mothers  and  our  wives. 


THE    DOLE    01     JARL    THORKELL.  5  5 

"  The  full  shall  give  his  portion 

To   him   who  hath   most   need  , 
Of  curdled  skyr  and  black  bread, 

Be   daily  dole  decr< 

1  [e   broke   from    off  his    n<«  k-chain 

old  ; 
And  i  a<  h   man,  at   his  bidding, 

illght    gifts   for  young   and   old. 

Then  mothers  nursed  their  children, 

And  daughl  their  sii 

And  Health  sal  down  with   Plenty 

Befon    the  nexl    \   il     fires. 

The    lie:  R)  kdal  ; 

The   Doom-ring  still   remail 
But  the   snows   of  a  thousand   winter, 

Have   washed   away   the   stains. 


THE    DOLE    OF   JARL    THORKELL. 

Christ  ruleth  now  ;    the  ^Esir 
Have  found  their  twilight  dim  ; 

And,  wiser  than  she  dreamed,  of  old 
The  Vala  sang  of  Him  ! 


Tin:    TWO    RABBIS. 


Till:    TWo     RABBI 

HT^HE  Nathan,  t  .  and  ten, 

I  the  evil  worl 

then, 

Just  as  the       

M    • 

And   mi 

:  he  left  his  seat 

tit   out 
From  the  greal 

With  sackcloth,  and  with  <n  his  1 

Making  h  Long  he  ] 

Smiting  his  he  laid 

Open 

Pausing  to  hear  that  Daughl  ce, 

3* 


58  THE    TWO    RABBIS. 

Behold  the  royal  preacher's  words :  "  A  friend 
Loveth  at  all  times,  yea,  unto  the  end  ; 
And  for  the  evil  day  thy  brother  lives." 
Marvelling,  he  said :  "  It  is  the  Lord  who  gives 
Counsel  in  need.     At  Ecbatana  dwells 
Rabbi  Ben  Isaac,  who  all  men  excels 
In  righteousness  and  wisdom,  as  the  trees 
Of  Lebanon  the  small  weeds  that  the  bees 
Bow  with  their  weight.     I  will  arise,  and  lay 
My  sins  before  him." 

And  he  went  his  way 
Barefooted,  fasting  long,  with  many  prayers  ; 
But  even  as  one  who,  followed  unawares, 
Suddenly  in  the  darkness  feels  a  hand 
Thrill  with  its  touch  his  own,  and  his  cheek  fanned 
By  odors  subtly  sweet,  and  whispers  near 
Of  words  he  loathes,  yet  cannot  choose  but  hear, 


THE    TWO    RABB  :   | 

So,  while  the   Rabbi  journeyed,  chanting  low 
The  wail  of  David's  penitential   v. 

>re  him  still  the  old  temptation  came, 
And  mocked  him   with   the   motion  and   the  shame 
I  >f   ill  h  that,   shuddering,   he   abhon 

Himself;  and,   crying   mightily  to   the    Lord 
To   fl        hi  1st    the  demon   out, 

Smote   with   his   staff  the   blank ness   round   about. 

At   length,   in   the   low   light   of  a   Spent   day, 
The  towers  of  1  ly 

R         ^n  tlie  desert's  rim;  and   Nathan,   faint 
.\\x\    footsore,    pausing   whoi  [nt 

The   faith   of  Islam    reared   a   dome  1    tomb, 
Saw   some   one   kneeling   in    the   shadow,   whom 
I  [<  kindly  :    "  May   the    I  [  >lj    I  )nc 

Answer  thy   prayers,   O   strai-  Whereupon 

The   shape  stood  up   with   a  loud   cry,   and   then, 


60  THE    TWO    RABBIS. 

Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  the  two  gray  men 
Wept,  praising  Him  whose  gracious  providence 
Made  their  paths  one.     But  straightway,  as  the  sense 
Of  his  transgression  smote  him,  Nathan  tore 
Himself  away :  "  O  friend  beloved,  no  more 
Worthy  am  I  to  touch  thee,  for  I  came, 
Foul  from  my  sins,  to  tell  thee  all  my  shame. 
Haply  thy  prayers,  since  naught  availeth  mine, 
May  purge  my  soul,  and  make  it  white  like  thine. 
Pity  me,  O  Ben  Isaac,  I  have  sinned  ! " 

Awestruck  Ben  Isaac  stood.     The  desert  wind 

Blew  his  long  mantle  backward,  laying  bare 

The  mournful  secret  of  his  shirt  of  hair. 

"  I  too,  O  friend,  if  not  in  act,"  he  said, 

"  In  thought  have  verily  sinned.     Hast  thou  not  read, 

*  Better  the  eye  should  see  than  that  desire 

Should  wander  ? '     Burning  with  a  hidden  fire 


Til  6 1 

That  tears  and  prayers  quench  not,  I  come  to  thee 
For  pity  and  for  help,  as  thou  to  me. 

for  me,  0  my  friend!"     Rut  Nathan  cried, 

y  thou  for  me,   I  ic! " 

Side  by  side 
In  the  low  sunshine  by  the  turban 

knelt  ;   each  made  hi    br<  >th<  i  his  own, 

I         tting,  In  the  agon) 
Of  pitying  love,  his  i  I 

l         .  for  his  friend  me  ; 

His  pra)  name  ; 

And.  when  at  last  they  rose  up  to  embi 
pard.»n  in  his  brother" 

Long  aft<  r,  when  his  head-* 

Trai  -1  on  the  targum-m 

In    Rabbi    Nathan's  hand   these   words   were   read: 


62  THE    TWO    RABBIS. 

"  Hope  not  the  cure  of  sin  till  Self  is  dead ; 
Forget  it  in  loves  service,  and  the  debt 
Thou  canst  not  pay  the  angels  shall  forget ; 
Heavens  gate  is  shut  to  him  who  comes  alone ; 
Save  thou  a  soul  and  it  shall  save  thy  own  !  " 


THE    MEETLN  63 


Til  E    M  EET  ING. 

npHE  elder  folk  shook  bands  at  ' 

]  1 
To 
I  [alf  solemnizi  d  and  half  amus 

With    l"i- _.-,-■  iiM\v:. 

His 

de  the  hills  lay  warm  i 
The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 

1  half-leg  d  le  bird 

The  ;  re  n  i 

"  What  part  or  lot  have  you,"  he  said, 
"  In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head  ? 
Is  silence  worship  ?  —  Seek  it  where 

Othes  with  dreams  the   summer  air, 


64  THE    MEETING. 

Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  hall, 
But  where  soft  lights  and  shadows  fall, 
And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 
-     Glide  soundless  over  grass  and  flowers  ! 
From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 
Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart, 
Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 
Walks  the  .free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 
His  followers  up  from  other  men  ; 
His  service  liberty  indeed, 
He  built  no  church,  he  framed  no  creed  ; 
But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 
Made  broader  his  phylactery, 
As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 
The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene 
Through  ripening  cornfields  lead  the  way 
Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day, 


THE    u:  65 

sermons  were  the  healthful   talk 
That  shorter  made   the  mountain-walk, 
Hi     wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  bii 
Where  mingled   with    His  gracious   wu: 

rustle  of  the   tamari>k-trec 
And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee." 

"Thy   words  are   well,    0   friend,"    I 

ued   and    unlimited, 
With  noi  lide  of  ston  I  >ne, 

1  I  'hureh  xn. 

Invisible   and   silent    >tand> 
The   temple   never   made   with    hands, 
Unheard  th  still  and  small 

01  1;-  mi  ><  en  iaL 

He   needs   no   special   place   of  pr; 
Whose  hearing  ear  i  where  ; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  davs 


66  THE    MEETING. 

That  ringed  the  earth  with  stones  of  praise, 
Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 
The  plinths  of  Philae's  colonnade. 
Still  less  He  owns  the  selfish  good 
And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 
The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 
Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite  ; 
Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole, 
Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  soul. 
Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 
And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin, 
The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 
The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

"  Dream  not,  O  friend,  because  I  seek 
This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 
I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 
Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 


Tin:  m; 

But  nature  is  not  solitude  ; 

She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood  ; 

Ilcr  many  hands  reach  out    to 

Her  many   t 

Perpetual  rid 

She  offers  to  our 

She  will  not  till, 

But  drags  th  ive  at  her  will  ; 

And,  making  earth  too  great  for  1 

She  hi  I  r  in  the 

I  find  it  well  to  come 
For  deep  r  this  still  room, 

For  h  ire  the  habit  of  the  soul. 

world's  control  ; 
The  strength  of  mutual  puq 
More  earnestly  our  common 
And   from   the  silence  multiplied 


68  THE    MEETING. 

By  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 

Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

"  Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 
Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 
A  flavor  of  its  many  springs, 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings  ; 
In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy  ; 
And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 
I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face  ; 
The  blind  by-sitter  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot  ; 
No  eye  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  ! 
And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin, 
In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin, 


the   m:  69 

I  bow  my  head,   my  heart   I   bare 
As  when   that  face   was  living   there, 
And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain) 
The  peace  of  simple  tru^t   to  gain, 
Fold  fan 
The   i  my   heart   a. 

"  \Y  li   »m     th  ill  unbrok 

h  goldei  >m 

Our  autumn  flowers  have  just   m  m;« 

Wh<  ful  utterance  thr 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  bl 
Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  1 
Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 

•aw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 
The   Eternal  beauty  mirrored   th 

UTS   but   added   grace 


JO  THE    MEETING. 

And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 

The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 

Glad  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day, 

While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 

The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet ! 

Or  haply  hers,  whose  pilgrim  tread 

Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led  ; 

Who  dreams  her  childhood's  sabbath  dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream, 

And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 

Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 

Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 

To  prayer,  from   Moslem  minarets  fall, 

Repeating  where  His  works  were  wrought 

The  lesson   that  her  Master  taught, 

Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave, 

The  prophecies  of  Cumae's  cave  ! 


THE    M: 

"  I   ask   no  breath 

rone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 

..idle-lit   I 
mate  w 

■ 
Its  1 

Then 

ilpit  hamra 
Of  1 

I  tking  t'n 

I 

What  work  the  1 

I 

But   God   is   near  us  no*  n  ; 

His  i  -  still  unspent, 

His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent; 


/2  THE    MEETING. 

And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 

Outgrows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds  ; 

The  manna  gathered  yesterday 

Already  savors  of  decay  ; 

Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  unknown 

Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone  ; 

Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 

And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow  ; 

The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 

With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 

We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 

Call  to  a  thousand  oracles, 

But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 


Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight  ; 


The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 
Glimmer  and.  swim  beneath  our  look; 
Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breast 
With  deepening  agony  of  quest 


J  ill    Id 

The  old  entreaty:  'Art  thou   lie, 
Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  b 

hould  be  most  where  man   i 
neither 
And  : 

J       lothe  thi  :  — 

Where  farm*  r  f  Ik  i  — 

I  turn  my  bell-unsumm 
I  lay  the  cril 

I   trend   upon   nn  1   pride, 

And,  lov  tify 

To  the  on<  i  humanity  ; 

Confess  the  universal  want. 
And  share  whatever  int. 

lie  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own, 
The  soul  is  lest  that  I  alone. 

Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 
4 


74  THE    MEETING. 

Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle, 

But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 

The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ; 

Heart  answers  heart ;  in  one  desire 

The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 

'  Where,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  three, 

Our  Lord  hath  said,  '  I  there  will  be ! ' 

"  So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 

The  feeling  which  is  evidence 

That  very  near  about  us  lies 

The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 

The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 

Impinges  on  this  world   of  ours. 

The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts, 

To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts  ; 

The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 

Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer  :  — 


THK    Ml.I.li' 

That  all  our  pain,  and  doubt 

A  great  compas  about, 

and  force, 
Arc   v. 

Then  duty  I 
The 

The  pas 

i 

.  to  the  calml)  ,ht 

The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught, 

.    dimly  und 
That   1m 

I,  chiefly,   its  divinesl 
In    Him   of  Nazareth's   holy   face  ; 
That  tu  be  saved  is  only  this, — 


/  D 


/6  THE    MEETING. 

Salvation  from  our  selfishness, 

From  more  than  elemental  fire, 

The  soul's  unsanctified  desire, 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 

That' warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain  ; 

That  worship's  deeper  meaning  lies 

In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice, 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 

And  posturing  of  penitence, 

But  love's  unforced  obedience  ; 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 

For  man,  not  God, — for  earth,  not  heaven, 

The  blessed   means  to  holiest  ends, 

Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends  ; 

That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar 

The  king  of  some  remoter  star, 

Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 

To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear, 


THE    MEETING. 

Hut  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind, 
The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 
In   works  we  do,   in  prayer  .v, 

Life  of  our  life,  he  lives  ton 


?8  THE    ANSWER. 


THE    ANSWER. 

QPARE  me,  dread  angel  of  reproof, 
And  let  the  sunshine  weave  to-day 

Its  gold-threads  in  the  warp  and  woof 
Of  life  so  poor  and  gray. 

Spare  me  awhile  ;  the  flesh  is  weak. 

These  lingering  feet,  that  fain  would  stray 
Among  the  flowers,  shall  some  day  seek 

The  strait  and  narrow  way. 

Take  of!  thy  ever-watchful  eye, 
The  awe  of  thy  rebuking  frown  ; 

The  dullest  slave  at  times  must  sigh 
To  fling  his  burdens  down  ; 


THE    A NSW!  79 

To  drop  hi        I  straining  oar, 

And  press,  in   summer  warmth  and  calm, 
The  lap  of  some  enchanted   shore 
I   and   of  balm. 

not  my  Life  >m, 

My   hi   Hi    i 
This   da)    be   mine  :  tie 

As  dut)  |    ire. 

••  n, 
Smiting  my  selfish 
•   I     morrow  is  with  I 

And   man   hath    hi:" 

"  Say  not,   thy  fond,  vail  within, 

The  Father's  arras  shall  still  be  wide. 

When  from  these  pleasant  ways  of  sin 
Thou  turn'st  at  eventide. 


80  THE    ANSWER. 

" '  Cast  thyself  down,'  the  tempter  saith, 
'And  angels  shall  thy  feet  upbear.' 

He  bids  thee  make  a  lie  of  faith, 
And  blasphemy  of  prayer. 

"Though  God  be  good  and  free  be  Heaven, 
No  force  divine  can  love  compel  ; 

And,  though  the  song  of  sins  forgiven 
May  sound  through  lowest  hell, 

"The  sweet  persuasion  of  His  voice 

Respects  thy  sanctity  of  will. 
He  giveth  day  :  thou  hast  thy  choice 

To  walk  in  darkness  still  ; 

"As  one  who,  turning  from  the  light, 
Watches  his  own  gray  shadow  fall, 

Doubting  upon  his  path  of  night, 
If  there  be  day  at  all ! 


Tin:    \-  8 1 

word  of  doom  may  shut  thee  out, 
No  wind  of  wrath  may  downward  whirl, 

words  of  fin  watch  al 

The  open  pearl  ; 

"A  tenderer  light  than  moon  or  sun, 
Than  song  of  earth  a  sweeter  hymn, 

May   shine   and   sound    I  n, 

And   thmi   be   deaf  and   dim. 

"  For<  v   r   round   the 

The  guiding  lights  of  Love  shall  burn  ; 
But  what  if,  habit-bound,  thy  feet' 

Shall   laek   the   will   to  turn  ? 

"  What   if  thine   eye   ref 

Thine   ear  of   Heaven's   free  welcome   fail, 
And  thou  a  willing  captive 

Thyself  thy  own   dark  jail  ? 


82  THE   ANSWER. 

"  O  doom  beyond  the  saddest  guess, 
As  the  long  years  of  God  unroll 

To  make  thy  dreary  selfishness 
The  prison  of  a  soul  ! 

"To  doubt  the  love  that  fain  would  break 
The  fetters  from  thy  self-bound  limb  ; 

And  dream  that  God  can  thee  forsake 
As  thou  forsakest  him  ! " 


G.     L.    S.  83 


T   T  E  •  the  work  of  a  true  man, — 

iwn  him,  honor  him,  love  him. 

r  him,  I  nan, 

op  manliest  brows  above  him! 

O  dusky  mothers  and  daughl 

>f  mourning  keep  for  him  ! 
Up  in  the  mountains,  and  down  by  th 
Lift  up  your  him  ! 

For  the  wannest  of  hearts  is  frozen, 

The   freest   ^(  hands   is   still  ; 
And  the  gap  in  our  picked  and  chosen 

The  long  years  may  not  fill. 


84  G.   L.   s. 

No  duty  could  overtask  him, 

No  need  his  will  outrun  ; 
Or  ever  our  lips  could  ask  him, 

His  hands  the  work  had  done. 

He  forgot  his  own  soul  for  others, 
Himself  to  his  neighbor  lending  ; 

He  found  the  Lord  in  his  suffering  brothers, 
And  not  in  the  clouds  descending. 

So  the  bed  was  sweet  to  die  on, 

Whence  he  saw  the  doors  wide  swung 

Against  whose  bolted  iron 

The  strength  of  his  life  was  flung. 

And  he  saw  ere  his  eye  was  darkened 
The  sheaves  of  the  harvest-bringing, 

And  knew  while  his  ear  yet  hearkened 
The  voice  of  the  reapers  singing. 


'..    L.    S.  85 

Ah,  well!  —  The  world  is  discreet; 
There  are  plenl  tuse  and  wait  ; 

Hut   her  man   \\\  bis   feet 

,  — 

Plui  '  hark   when    the   in;. 

new    it, 

And  put  to  the   I  work  the  sinner 

W'hm  saint  3  fail  d  to  do  it. 

to  tin:  wrong's  redressing 
A  worthier  paladin. 
Shall  he  not  hear  the  blessii 

od  and  faithful,  enter  in  ! " 


86  FREEDOM    IN    BRAZIL. 


W 


FREEDOM    IN    BRAZIL. 


ITH  clearer  light,  Cross  of  the  South,  shine 


/ 

.      forth 

In  blue  Brazilian  skies  ; 
And  thou,  O  river,  cleaving  half  the  earth 

From  sunset  to  sunrise, 
From  the  great  mountains  to  the  Atlantic  waves 

Thy  joy's  long  anthem  pour. 
Yet  a  few  days  (God  make  them  less  !)  and  slaves 

Shall  shame  thy  pride  no  more. 
No  fettered  feet  thy  shaded  margins  press  ; 

But  all  men  shall  walk  free 
Where  thou,  the  high-priest  of  the  wilderness, 

Hast  wedded  sea  to  sea. 


FR]  IN    BRAZIL.  8? 

And  thou,  great-hearted  ruler,  through  whose  mouth 

The  word  of  God  is  said, 
Once  more,  "  Let  there  be  light!*1  —  Son  of  the 
South, 
Lift   up   thy  honored   h 

unashamed  a  crown  by  thj 
More   than   by   birth -thy   own, 

if  watch   and   ward  ;   thou   art   b 

iteful  hearts  alon 

The   moated   wall   and   battle-ship   may    fail, 

Bui  ball  justice   pro\ 

Stronger  than  gl  r   iron   mail 

Tin:   panoply   of  love. 

a  ned  doubly  by  man's  blessing  and   I  I  ace, 

Thy   future  .re  ; 

Who   frees   a   people   makes  his   statue's   place 
In   Time's  Valhalla   sure. 


88  FREEDOM    IN    BRAZIL. 

Lo !  from  his  Neva's  banks  the  Scythian  Czar 

Stretches  to  thee  his  hand 
Who,  with  the  pencil  of  the  Northern  star, 

Wrote  freedom  on  his  land. 
And  he  whose  grave  is  holy  by  our  calm 

And  prairied  Sangamon, 
From  his  gaunt  hand  shall  drop  the  martyr's  palm 

To  greet  thee  with  "  Well  done  !  " 

And    thou,    O    Earth,    with    smiles    thy   face    make 
sweet, 

And  let  thy  wail  be  stilled, 
To  hear  the  Muse  of  prophecy  repeat 

Her  promise  half  fulfilled. 
The  Voice  that  spake  at  Nazareth  speaks  still, 

No  sound  thereof  hath  died  ; 
Alike  thy  hope  and  heaven's  eternal  will 

Shall  yet  be  satisfied. 


BEDOM    IN"    BRAZIL.  89 

The  years  are  slow,  the  vision  tarrieth  long, 

And   far  the  end   may  I 
But,  one  by  one,  the   fiends  of  ancient  wrong 

Go   out  and   leave   thee   free. 


90  DIVINE    COMPASSION. 


DIVINE    COMPASSION. 

T     ONG  since,  a  dream  of  heaven  I  had, 

And  still  the  vision  haunts  me  oft  ; 
I  see  the  saints  in  white  robes  clad, 

The  martyrs  with  their  palms  aloft ; 
But  hearing  still,  in  middle  song, 

The  ceaseless  dissonance  of  wrong  ; 
And  shrinking,  with  hid  faces,  from  the  strain 
Of  sad,  beseeching  eyes,  full  of  remorse  and  pain. 

The  glad  song  falters  to  a  wail, 

The  harping  sinks  to  low  lament ; 
Before  the  still  unlifted  veil 

I  see  the  crowned  foreheads  bent, 


DIVINE   COM  91 

Making  more  sweet  the  heavenly  air, 

With  breathings  of  unselfish  pra\ 
And   a  V  h:  "O   Pity  which   is  pain, 

0   I.  •  fill  up  my  sufferings  which 

remain  ! 

"Shall  soul<  ;  1  by  me  refuse 

To  share  my  sorrow  in  their  turn? 
Or,  sin-forgiven,  my  gifi 

n  ? 
If:  :  no  pit] 

Has  faith   no  work,  and   love   I  r  ? 

While   sin   remains,   and   souls   in   d.uku 
Can   heav  n   itself  be  heaven,  and  look  unmoved 
on  hell3" 

Then  through  the  Gates  of  Pain,   I   dream, 
A  wind  of  heaven  blows  coolly  in  ; 


92  DIVINE    COMPASSION. 

Fainter  the  awful  discords  seem, 

The  smoke  of  torment  grows  more  thin, 

Tears  quench  the  burning  soil,  and  thence 
Spring  sweet,  pale  flowers  of  penitence ; 

And   through  the  dreary  realm  of  man's  despair, 

Star-crowned  an  angel  walks,  and  lo  !  God's  hope 
is  there ! 

Is  it  a  dream  ?     Is  heaven  so  high 

That  pity  cannot  breathe  its  air  ? 
Its  happy  eyes  forever  dry, 

Its  holy  lips  without  a  prayer ! 
My  God !  my  God  !  if  thither  led 

By  thy  free  grace  unmerited, 
No  crown  nor  palm  be  mine,  but  let  me  keep 
A  heart    that    still    can  feel,  and    eyes    that    still 
can  weep. 


LINKS    ON    A    FLY-LEAP.  93 


LIN  ES    ON    A    F  LY  -  L  EAF. 

NEED  not  ask  thee,  for  my  sake, 
To  read  a  book  whi<  h  well  may  make 
Its   way   by   native   t  wit 

Without  my  manual  sign  to  it. 
I-     piquant  writer  1.  >ra  me 

ravely  masculin  nty, 

And  wdl  might  laugh  her  m 
At  broken  spears  in  her  beh 
Yet,  spite  "Tall  the  critics  tell, 
I  frankly  own  I  like  her  well. 
It   may   be  that   she   wields  a  pen 
Too  sharply   nibbed   lor  thin-skinned   men, 
That   her  keen   arm  h   and    try 

The  armor  joints  of  dignity, 


94  LINES    ON    A    FLY-LEAF. 

And,  though  alone  for  error  meant, 
Sing  through  the  air  irreverent. 
I   blame  her  not,  the  young  athlete 
Who  plants  her  woman's  tiny  feet, 
And  dares  the  chances  of  debate 
Where  bearded  men  might  hesitate, 
Who,  deeply  earnest,  seeing  well 
The  ludicrous  and  laughable, 
Mingling  in  eloquent  excess 
Her  anger  and  her  tenderness, 
And,  chiding  with  a  half-caress, 
Strives,  less  for  her  own  sex  than  ours, 
With  principalities  and  powers, 
And  points  us  upward  to  the  clear 
Sunned  heights  of  her  new  atmosphere. 

Heaven  mend  her  faults  !  —  I  will  not  pause 
To  weigh  and  doubt  and  peck  at  flaws, 


LINKS    I  V-LI1AK.  95 

Or  waste  my  pity  when   sonic  fool 
Provokes  her  measureless  ridicule. 
Strong-minded  is  she?     Better 
Than   dulness  set   for  sale  or  sfa 
A   household   folly   capped   and   belled 

In  fashion's  dance  of  puppets  held, 
Or  poor  pretence  of  womanh 
Wh  .  il,  flavorless  platitude 

I      warranted   from   all   otlci- 
leaning's  violent 
Give  me  tfa  whose  bead 

Sparkles  along  the  pag     1   i 

Electric   words   in   which    I    find 
The   tonic  of  the   northwest   wind, — 
The  wisdom   which   itself  allies 

I   and   pure  human i: 
Where  scorn   of  meanness,  hate  of  wroi 
Are   underlaid   by   love   as   strong  ; 


96  LINES    ON    A    FLY-LEAF. 

The  genial  play  of  mirth  that  lights 
Grave  themes  of  thought,  as,  when  on  nights 
Of  summer-time,  the  harmless  blaze 
Of  thunderless  heat-lightning  plays, 
And  tree  and  hill-top  resting  dim 
And  doubtful   on  the  sky's  vague  rim, 
Touched  by  that  soft  and  lambent  gleam, 
Start  sharply  outlined  from  their  dream. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  woman's  sphere, 
Nor  point  with  scripture  texts  a  sneer, 
Nor  wrong  the  manliest  saint  of  all 
By  doubt,  if  he  were  here,  that  Paul 
Would  own  the  heroines  who  have  lent 
Grace  to  truth's  stern  arbitrament, 
Foregone  *the  praise  to  woman  sweet, 
And  cast  their  crowns  at  Duty's  feet ; 
Like  her,  who  by  her  strong  Appeal 


LINES    ON    \    i  ;  97 

and    Mammon   feci, 
Who,  earliest  summoned  to  withstand 
The  color-madness  of  the  land, 
Counted  her  life-long  I<  tin, 

And   made  her  own   In  r  pain  ; 

( >r  her,  who  in  her  greenwood  shad 
I  [(  iid  the  sharp  call  th      I        lom  ma 
And,  answering,  struck  from  Sappl 
( )f  love  the    I  i  men's  fii 

Or  that  young  girl,  —  Domre'my's  maid 

ived  a  nobler  cause  to  aid,  — 
Shaking  from  warning  finger-ti] 

The   doom   of  her   ap  tcalyp 

( )r   her,   who   world-wide   entrain 

1 1 1  •  .  •  abin  of  the  sla . 

Made   all   his   want    and    SOITOW   known. 


And  all  earth's  languages  his  own. 


g8  HYMN. 


HYMN 

FOR   THE    HOUSE    OF    WORSHIP    AT    GEORGETOWN, 

ERECTED   IN    MEMORY   OF    A    MOTHER. 

HPHOU  dwellest  not,  O  Lord  of  all  ! 
In  temples  which  thy  children  raise  ; 
Our  work  to  thine  is  mean  and  small, 
And  brief  to  thy  eternal  days. 

Forgive  the  weakness  and  the  pride, 
If  marred  thereby  our  gift  may  be, 

For  love,  at  least,  has  sanctified 
The  altar  that  we  rear  to  thee. 

The  heart  and  not  the  hand  has  wrought 
From  sunken  base  to  tower  above 


HYMN.  99 

The  i  Icr  thought, 

The  memory  of  a  deathless  love  ! 

And  though  should  >und  of  speech 

Or  organ  echo  from  its  wall, 

I 

.shade   in   D< 

1  I    re   should   th 
And  bl  n  ; 

rofane,  nor  hati  id, 

The  mingled  loves  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Thou,  who  didsl  with  dying  breath 

Th<  hing  by  thy  en 

■tful   of  the   pains  of  death 
In  sorrow  tor  her  mighty  1 


IOO  HYMN. 

In  memory  of  that  tender  claim, 
O  Mother-born,  the  offering  take, 

And  make  it  worthy  of  thy  name, 
And  bless  it  for  a  mother's  sake  ! 


THE     END. 


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The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 
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In  its  slant  splendor  seemed  to  tell 
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